The Just Happening of Sherlock Holmes
by calamitybreak
Summary: It started with the hijacking of a bus. No, not a hijacking, a "temporary acquisition of available transportation." Which just happened to be a bus. A bus that John just happened to be riding. And now John just happens to get continually caught up in Sherlock's plots; half of them preventing crime, and the other half... well, not so much.


Alternatively; "It started with the hijacking of a bus. No, not a hijacking - a "temporary acquisition of the nearest available transportation," as called by Sherlock Holmes. Which just happened to be a bus. A bus that one Dr. John Watson just happened to be riding. And now, that one Dr. John Watson just happens to get continually caught up in Sherlock's plots; half of them preventing crime, and the other half… well, not so much."

But that wouldn't fit in the piddly little space you get for a summary.

So, this is a concept that I'm pretty sure has been done a million times to death, but I found a draft of this that I'd written up months ago in an old exercise book and I felt compelled to start it again. So, here we are!

The rating will change, but not until later on in the story. For now; enjoy!

As a quick note in advance, none of this is beta read, but is has been edited and read over by myself a few times. So, if you spot any mistakes, please let me know! (And just quickly… I am looking for a beta, so~! If you think maybe you'd like to beta read any further chapters, well, that would actually be really stupendously awesome).

* * *

**[o1]**  
**The Art of Not Stealing Buses**

* * *

When John got on the bus that morning, it had less to do with necessity and more to do with the very basic, very simple need to just _get out_. Out of the surgery, understandable; out of his tiny little flat, even more so.

It was a split-second decision to get on that bus; he'd been passing a bus stop and it was just sitting there so he thought, what the hell, and jumped on. It wasn't as if he was expecting anything to come out of it, no sudden epiphanies of what he should do with life. It was just a bus ride, and he'd probably just get off somewhere and wander around for a bit.

What he had _not_ been expecting, not by any stretch of the imagination, was for a wild-haired man to clamber on at the next stop, throw the driver bodily out of the open door in one swift motion, then start careening down the street like a madman.

They had passed another two stops and gone off their route entirely before John finally managed to roar out, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The man barely spared him a glance. "I would think it's rather obvious as to what I'm doing, though I suppose what I think I'm doing is drastically different from what you think I'm doing."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Sorry, run that by me again?"

The man gave a frustrated grunt. "You think I've just hijacked a bus. Why? Possibly you think me a bitter man, more likely you think me a mad one, and you're worried this 'trip' is going to terminate in the Thames, with all of you still aboard. In contrast to that, I think I've simply momentarily commandeered the transport that was most accessible to me at the time - with all intentions of returning it, of course - to pursue a suspect on the run from an investigation of a particularly creative string of murders, mainly involving children under eight. You may have read about it."

"So, you're not-"

"Going to drive you into the Thames? That would be incredibly counterproductive of me, since I am usually in the business of preventing deaths, not purposefully causing them. There are, however, a few that might disagree with that statement," he said, and an ugly look came over his features that looked like a cross between pure disgust and some kind of twisted humour.

John gaped, and quickly came to the conclusion that the man was, indeed, quite mad. Not that he'd really been having any doubts.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I would say 'Pleased to meet you,' but so far you haven't provided much stimulating conversation, Doctor Watson, so it hasn't really been much of a pleasure," he went on to say when John didn't reply.

"How did you know-"

"Your name, your title?" Sherlock grinned, slamming around a corner and causing John to wrap his arms securely around one of the poles. "While I could tell you any one of many observations that would lead to that conclusion, usually the most obvious is the most easily missed, though also the most boring. Your name tag."

John's hand automatically reached up to cover his surgery-issued name tag - oops, he'd forgotten to take it off - then realised what he was doing and dropped it the next second. He sighed. "So - a bus, then? You couldn't just, I don't know, take a cab?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "Cabs rarely go much faster than the speed limit, and don't generally take very well to my preferred method of speeding them up."

"So you thought, 'Hey, I'll just steal a bus, I'm sure they won't mind!' And out of curiosity - though I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking this - exactly what is your method? Of speeding them up, that is."

Without taking his eyes off the road, Sherlock wordlessly slipped a gun out of his pocket and into John's hand.

"Jesus-!" John exclaimed, taking it from him. It was definitely very real and felt very solid in his hands, but- hang on. He turned it round in his hands, and frowned. "It's empty."

Sherlock grinned. "None of them knew that, and I'd be interested as to how you did from just the weight, Doctor Watson." He turned for a second to take his gun back. "Ah, I see. Afghanistan or Iraq? No, don't tell me, I don't care. Instead I'd like you to tell me why a man like you would be aimlessly catching buses in any old direction. Are you lost, Doctor Watson?"

"John," he said automatically, somewhat tired of the repeated "Doctor Watson" routine, before thinking _did I just introduce myself to a bus-stealing lunatic?_

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, you did. Introduce yourself that is, though 'lunatic' is a bit harsh. Now, _John_," he said pointedly, adding a little chuckle. "Would you be so kind as to take the wheel? I ask, because in about 20 seconds I'm going to open those doors and throw myself out of them, and you strike me as the kind of man that would be rather averse to a bus full of civilians hurtling recklessly down the street."

John awkwardly jimmied himself into Sherlock's position, and there were a few tumultuous lurches as he took over completely. He wrapped his hands grimly around the steering wheel, much to Sherlock's amusement if his chuckle was anything to go by.

Sherlock reached over him and opened the bus doors. "As a side note, this whole rigmarole is also a rather convenient way for me to shake off my own pursuers. I happen to have on my possession a rather valuable blue carbuncle, that is also very much Not Mine. Well, have a good day, John!"

And with that, he jumped out of the bus, leaving John - alongside the rest of the passengers which, admittedly, he'd all but forgotten about - to gape after him.

John immediately pulled over, parking rather awkwardly half on the pavement, then jumped out after him. In the distance he could see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes and a Mr. John Doe run into one of London's many side streets and out of sight.

He was about to follow after them - either to help Sherlock catch the man or give him a piece of his mind, he hadn't quite decided yet - when a hand clapped down on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around and face a rather grumpy police officer.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

John's stomach plummeted, but he still couldn't help it when he barked out a laugh. "You're serious? I didn't think cops actually said that." He gestured to the bus, and the civilians still shakily disembarking. "About the bus, yeah? It would have been a lot worse if I hadn't been there. You'd be cleaning up a wreckage."

The policeman didn't even look back at the bus. "Nevertheless, you'll have to come with me."

John laughed again, and the section of his brain dedicated to self-preservation instinct told him rather loudly that laughing in the face of a police officer probably wasn't All That Good. "Are you going to arrest me for aiding and abetting a hijacking? Bus theft? What would you call this, anyway? Because he called it 'commandeering the nearest available transportation.'"

The man was beginning to look quite angry now. "I'll arrest you for obstructing an official police investigation if you don't shut your trap!"

John shrugged good naturedly, went along with him, and, in possibly his wisest move all day, shut his trap.

* * *

The cops that took him aside for questioning were making a right meal of it, John decided. He'd all but spelled his story out for them at least three times, keeping it exactly the same each time, and they still insisted on asking questions that were either obvious or completely irrelevant.

"What was this man like?" one of the cops asked for what seemed like the 20th time in the last five minutes.

John swore he was going to start clawing at his face in frustration any second now. "I told you already. He was tall and pale and had a rather frantic look about him and in the manner he spoke. Spoke too fast, jumped from one train of thought to another - usually seen in excitement, an adrenalin rush; or some kind of stimulant."

"And you can confirm he was on drugs?"

John breathed out slowly through his mouth. _Don't punch them, Watson. Doesn't generally endear you to many people, especially coppers_, he reminded himself. "No, I can't, and I didn't say that. It's a possibility, is all, and I don't think you should rule it out."

The cop started saying something else, most likely just as moronic, but John was distracted by an argument happening right outside the door.

An argument which happened to involve one Sherlock Holmes.

"That's him, right there. The man who happened to acquire a bus," John said, motioning to the door.

The two cops turned and, to John's surprise and confusion, visibly relaxed. Then tensed again as Sherlock finished the argument with a wild hand gesture and wrenched the door open. His eyes swept over the room and settled on John, and he grinned.

He turned to the two policeman. "Ah, I see these two did their jobs spectacularly. Of course, I say that in the loosest way possible - forcibly keeping a voluntary civilian in questioning and not allowing them to leave is, technically, illegal, but they did exactly what I asked, and that was to keep you here. So, gold stars for everyone!"

The two men looked like they weren't sure whether to be flattered or insulted. Instead they settled for neither and simply left the room, finally leaving John alone.

Sherlock turned to him, his eyes glittering with the same excitement John had seen on the bus. "Hello, John."

He didn't say anything else and seemed to be waiting for a response, so John said, "Hello, Sherlock."

He clapped his hands together and sat down on the seat across from him. "Excellent, that's the pleasantries taken care of. Now, to business."

John just laughed. "I wasn't aware we had any business to take care of."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to speak again, but was interrupted by another man entering the room. He had greying hair and bags under his eyes that made him look like he hadn't slept in days. He was also carrying two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Sherlock. He ignored John completely - or rather, seemed to genuinely miss that he was even in the room.

"Look, Sherlock," he started to say, setting his own coffee on the table. "I'm going to come right out and say it: You may be brilliant and we may need you, but we won't be able to use you if you keep assing things up like this."

Sherlock frowned and slid the cup across the table to sit in front of John. "If the only reason you've come is to berate me, you can leave right now. I already know everything you want to say, so consider me suitably chastened and ashamed."

The man massaged the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I'm serious-"

Sherlock waved him away. "So am I, Lestrade. I'm a bit busy questioning one of the civvies your men pulled in, since you seemed to miss that entirely."

The man - Lestrade, John figured - turned to face him, and seemed surprised to see him there. He smiled, but it only served to stress how exhausted he looked. "Oh, sorry about that. Detective Inspector Lestrade, though you probably already figured that out." Then he furrowed his eyebrows. "John Watson, right? You should've been let go ages ago; we've already got everything we need."

John groaned. "I was wondering why they kept asking me the same questions. For a moment there I worried that they'd replaced your men with a team of parrots."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, and Lestrade looked like he was trying his best to look offended, but the smile gave him away. "To be fair, those two were running in circles for a particular reason, if what I heard them muttering to each other was anything to go by." He shot Sherlock a pointed look, which he pointedly ignored in return.

"I'm not explaining myself if you're going to yell at me anyway," Sherlock said, pushing the cup of coffee closer to John. "You may as well drink it; I'm certainly not going to." He said this to John.

John didn't take the cup. Sherlock grinned.

There was a tap on the door, and it opened to let in yet another man, this time wearing a bespoke suit. "Lestrade, Dr. Watson," he said to both of them in turn, then turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, no doubt you're aware of why I'm here."

"No doubt you're aware exactly how I feel about you being here," Sherlock retorted, seeming to both curl in on himself and jut his body out obnoxiously. John had to stifle a laugh at his clear display of passive aggression.

The man's expression turned to an almost imperceptible frown. "Really, Sherlock? Aren't you a little old for this kind of behaviour?"

Sherlock groaned. "Must everyone come in right this moment and make a spectacle of me?"

Lestrade laughed and butted in with, "As opposed to you making one of yourself?"

Sherlock all but threw his arms up in frustration. "If you hadn't noticed, I was trying tide this man over so he wouldn't sue all of you for malpractice and abuse of power!"

The other man - still nameless, to John's frustration - turned to him and swept his eyes quickly over his body. His gaze was clear and sharp and for some reason it made him shiver. "Ah," he said eventually. "You're his next one."

John's eyes widened in alarm. "His 'next one'? His next what? You mean he makes a habit of hijacking buses, telling whoever happens to be close by their life story, and just terrifying the public in general?"

"I didn't _hijack_ it," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I see you're not objecting to the rest of it," John retorted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. "I don't have the time for this, so I will summarise your arguments for you. Lestrade, you have your man, so please don't waste my time with any more paperwork. John, it would be advantageous for both of us if you move in with me. And Mycroft," his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared. "No. To everything you're thinking right now. Unless- _oh._" He glare turned to a grin, eyes going wide in delight. "The one with the chimera twins? Absolutely. I'll do it."

"_Sherlock,_" Lestrade all but growled.

At the exact same time, John let out a confused, "Hang on, what? Run that by me again?"

Sherlock waved their arguments away and swept towards the exit. "As I said, no time. Rather busy. I have a few experiments running at home and I'm worried one of them may have started boiling over while I've been away." He sighed, almost wistfully. "And Mrs. Hudson did so love that table."

He left the room just as abruptly as when he'd entered, half of his sentence going out the door with him.

The other man - and John was really getting sick of the lack of introductions happening lately - extended a hand to him, which he took tentatively. His grip was very firm and very solid.

"Mycroft Holmes, since Sherlock neglected to mention," he said, then cast his eyes over to Lestrade. "And I can see that our Detective Inspector over here had no intention of mentioning it any time soon. It seems that he's forgotten that people may not know who I am which, while flattering, isn't entirely true."

A look of understanding descended on John's face, while Lestrade's just turned slightly red. "So you're his…"

"Brother? Unfortunately, yes," he sighed.

"I was going to say handler," John continued, giving Mycroft a crooked grin.

Lestrade laughed, but Mycroft's expression didn't change at all. "A close enough assumption," he said, with that same wistful sigh of Sherlock's. "On that note, I need to 'handle' things. Good day," he said by way of goodbye, and swept out of the room with just as much grace as Sherlock had.

Lestrade slapped a hand on John's shoulder, making him jump in surprise. "Sorry you had to deal with that. One Holmes brother on their own is enough, but put them both in the same room…" He gave a chuckle. "Well, anyway, you're free to go now."

John nodded and stood up. "Thanks, mate," he said, took two steps to the door, then paused. "I don't suppose you could show me the way out? I kind of missed it when we came in."

"Sure. Could you grab that cup and chuck it in the bin? Since neither of you drank it…" He made a face. "Don't blame you, though. It's terrible stuff, that."

He binned it on his way out, and was barely out the door when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out, then frowned at the screen.

_You didn't mention the_  
_carbuncle._  
_SH_

**WHO IS THIS?**

_Who else would it be? Use_  
_your brain; it was given_  
_to you for a reason._  
_SH_

The reply was almost instantaneous, and he'd barely started typing back when another one came through.

_And it wasn't just to divert_  
_blood from your dick, as much_  
_of a spectacular job it does_  
_of that._  
_SH_

**HOW DID YOU GET MY**  
**NUMBER?**

_Stop asking stupid questions._  
_SH_

**FINE. DIDN'T MENTION IT**  
**BECAUSE IT DIDN'T SEEM**  
**RELEVANT.**

_Check the news._  
_SH_

John looked around for somewhere he could just stand and watch the news. As it was, there wasn't anywhere near, so he just dashed back into the police station where he remembered seeing one in the waiting room. He gave the receptionist a nod and motioned to the TV, and she nodded back.

The feature playing had a woman standing in front of a museum. The sound was muted, but the text running along the screen told him exactly what had happened.

'PRECIOUS GEM STOLEN FROM PRIVATE COLLECTION.'

John gaped as more information scrolled along the screen, but he'd already seen enough.

**SO YOU DID STEAL IT?**

_Check your pocket._  
_SH_

Confused, John did exactly as he asked. And pulled out a small, very bright, blue carbuncle.

He looked at it in alarm, then looked around him to check if anyone had seen him. Thankfully, the receptionist was still the only other person around, and she was focussing on other matters. He put the gem back in his pocket, shuffled up to her desk, and tapped on it in attempt to get her attention.

She looked up, somewhat irritated, and pointed down one of the corridors when he asked for Lestrade. He nodded his thanks, but she was already looking away again.

He walked down the corridor and found Lestrade in no time, sitting at a desk with mounds of paperwork around him. He knocked on his door and Lestrade looked up, surprised to see him.

John waved in the general direction of his desk. "That about the gem I saw on the news just now?"

Lestrade pulled a face. "Not even our division, but of course, I'm the only one that does a decent job around here. Not that I should be telling you that," he gave a chuckle, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

John coughed, somewhat embarrassed, and pulled the gem out of his pocket.

Lestrade's face flashed between stunned, confused, angry, and then finally dejected in the space of about one second, which impressed John immensely. "Sherlock?" he asked, in a tone that said _of course it was him_.

"Yeah. Slipped the thing into my pocket, the bastard," John said, slipping in to place the gem on his desk.

Lestrade sighed, then flashed him a sympathetic smile. "They'll be glad to get this back, at least," was all he said.

John nodded, stunned as Lestrade just waved him out, didn't pull him in for questioning or anything. Instead of questioning it, John pulled his phone out. A message was already waiting for him.

_Told you._  
_SH_

**ASSHOLE.**

John could all but feel his smug grin from here.


End file.
